


La farsa del destino

by Margot_le_Faye



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 10:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12679965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_le_Faye/pseuds/Margot_le_Faye
Summary: Thwarting Destiny can have unexpected consequences. So can trying to put things right.Written for the 2010 Reverse Challenge Fest at Hawthorn and Vine.  Instead of artists being challenged to create artwork for fic, authors were challenged to create fic for artwork.  The drawing of Hermione and Draco which inspired this fic is described in the story.





	La farsa del destino

**Author's Note:**

> For the opera lovers reading this: no, that’s not a typo. I do mean "The Farce of Destiny" rather than "The Force of Destiny." Only Pansy would consider the following story in the least tragic.
> 
> Also note that at the time this was written, the name of Draco's wife was known only from a note handwritten by JKR, and there was a debate in the fandom as to whether it was Astoria or Asteria. The debate could get heated, which inspired me to poke a little bit of good-natured fun at the argument.

At sixteen, Pansy Parkinson’s life was the perfect fairy tale. She was in a relationship with wealthy and handsome pureblood Draco Malfoy, the closest equivalent to a fairy-tale prince the Wizarding world could provide. His ancestral home, Malfoy Manor was near enough a fairy-tale castle for anyone’s taste. Pansy knew they would live there after their fairy-tale wedding, during which she’d be dressed like a fairy-tale princess in the most beautiful dress robes imaginable and possibly a goblin-made diamond tiara--she had her eye on one in Diagon Alley that would do nicely. Her future husband would adore her, treating her like the princess she was, bowing to her every wish with never the least argument between them, and the two of them would live happily ever after in the best fairy-tale fashion.

Nor was she alone in her expectations. The elder Malfoys approved the match, and had dropped hints her parents had happily taken. If the contracts weren’t currently being negotiated, it was understood that such a step waited only until she and Draco left Hogwarts. The imprisonment of Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban had caused only the slightest wrinkle in these cherished plans, a wrinkle soon smoothed away. If anything, Draco emerged from that particular tribulation as a more determined and forceful young man than ever, in Pansy’s view, everything one could wish for in a pure-blood, fairy-tale prince.

Therefore, at a family dinner during the Christmas hols of her sixth year at Hogwarts, her fond relatives had smiled indulgently as she prattled on about Draco, to whose home she and her parents had been invited for a necessarily low-key New Year’s celebration. Everyone but Great-Great-Grandmother Ermengarde, that is, who’d rolled her eyes and left the dinner table muttering something about _wasted on the young_. No one commented on the elderly witch’s decision to retire to her rooms before pudding had been served. Although something of a seer in her youth, it had been decades since Ermengarde had accurately predicted anything beyond what her daughter-in-law was going to serve her for dinner. Her accuracy there, it should be noted, remained unfailing. Still, the further she tottered into her tenth decade, the less credence her family gave to her pronouncements.

Thus, when she appeared at Pansy’s side at breakfast the next morning, Pansy listened politely, but not particularly attentively, when Great-Great-Grandmother Ermengarde gave her the warning, along with the little silver box.

“Some night sooner than you think, you’re going to be more bitter than you can now imagine and more pissed than you can now believe,” Ermengarde said in a surprisingly firm voice for one so ancient. “On that occasion, I want you to remember that it is a very dangerous thing to thwart Destiny, and open this box to start setting things right.”

“I...well. Thank you, Great-Great-Grandmother,” Pansy said. She assumed that the elderly witch had finally gone completely dotty and was now right round the twist. Such people were best humored, so Pansy swore she wouldn’t forget and that she’d take very good care of the little box. This she did by shoving it into the back of the top drawer of her dresser and promptly forgetting all about it.

One Friday night, sooner than she would have thought--or, five years, one war, a bitter breakup, no owls and a cataclysmic engagement announcement in the society pages of _The Daily Prophet_ later--Pansy Parkinson, now a successful designer of upscale robes for Gladrags Wizardwear of London, sat nursing her fifth glass of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey in the Leaky Cauldron while Millicent Bulstrode dutifully told her that she was too good for the blood traitor, and that she’d find someone better.

“There _is_ no one better, Millie,” Pansy said disconsolately. “Draco Malfoy was everything I ever wanted in a husband, and damn it, he was supposed to be mine, not that milquetoast Greengrass chit’s.”

“Then why did you cut him dead after the war?” Millicent asked, reasonably. “You made your feelings pretty clear about his family’s betrayal.”

“Yes, well, he was supposed to see the error of his ways and come crawling back to me,” Pansy admitted. “Mother was sure it wouldn’t take long.”

Millicent forbore to mention that leaving it for nearly five years had probably been the fatal flaw in that plan, and did what any friend would do: let her best mate get thoroughly pissed, saw her home, and tucked her into bed with a cauldron thoughtfully placed beside the bed to catch the sick.

Alas, Pansy did not remain sleeping long. Her dreams were troubled by images of her ancient relative nagging at her about something or other. Pansy woke up and remembered, very clearly, the location of a certain silver box, which had never been removed from her dresser drawer.

That dresser, with its entire contents, had been shrunk to fit in her pocket and taken with her when she’d moved into her own flat a few months after getting her job at Gladrags. Being verifiably both unimaginably bitter and unbelievably pissed, Pansy decided to find out what in the hell her lunatic ancestress had been on about.

With a groan, she heaved onto her side, which action found her heaving into the cauldron. It took her only three tries to _Evanesco_ away the sick and she managed the breath-freshening charm fairly creditably in one. Afterwards, Pansy stumbled over to the dresser, dumping out the contents--pots of make-up, jewelry, and a diary she hadn’t written in since fifth year--until she found the box, tangled up in a silk scarf she hadn’t worn since the color went out of fashion two years before.

“Let’s see what you’re good for,” she muttered, staggering back to her bed and sitting on it cross-legged, before opening her prize. Inside, nestled into some clearly ancient and fragile velvet, were a piece of crumbling parchment, and a simple silver ring with a sidewise figure eight as its only decoration. Pansy tumbled to the fact that the parchment was likely important, and as it seemed too delicate to handle, used her wand to levitate it out of the box, carefully unfold it, and set it to hover within easy reading distance in front of her face.

The directions were simple enough: _Let the one who dares confront Fate don the Ring of Eternity and call upon Ananke, to undo the evil of a thwarted destiny._

Shrugging, Pansy used her wand to refold the parchment and put it pack into the box before fishing out the ring and slipping it on. It looked far too small for her hand, as if it had been made for a child, but in the way of all such magical items, it adjusted itself to fit its new wearer perfectly.

As soon as it was on, Pansy loudly intoned, “I call upon Ananke to undo the evil of a thwarted destiny.” She couldn’t say she wasn’t surprised when nothing happened, and after waiting for a few minutes to be absolutely sure that nothing had happened or was going to happen, sighed, and reached to remove the ring and dump it back into the box.

At which point there was a flash of blinding light and a woman who was very tiny and very old stood in front of the startled witch. The old woman was dressed in the sort of robes one saw in status of the wizards from ancient Greece, with a veil over grey hair that had been intricately braided and coiled on her head like a crown.

“Are you absolutely certain, child, that destiny has been thwarted, rather than fulfilled?” the crone said in a surprisingly youthful voice.

“Great Merlin, where did you come from?” Pansy spluttered.

“You called, I answered,” the crone shrugged, “which was very foolish if your destiny hasn’t been thwarted, as I am obligated to eat the hearts of those who summon me under false pretenses.”

“What!” Pansy shrieked.

“And since we’ve already wasted thirty seconds of the two minutes you have to make your case before the heart-eating commences, I suggest you start talking.”

“Two minutes!” Pansy shrieked again.

“Well, one, now. Tick-tock, dearie,” Ananke said, licking her lips hungrily. Galvanized into speech, Pansy put her case.

“DracoMalfoygotengagedtothatGreengrassgirlwhenhewassupposedtomarrymeandnowmylifeisruined,” she got out.

“Draco Malfoy, you say?” Ananke frowned. “Engaged to one of the Greengrass girls? No, that isn’t right.”

“You’re telling me,” Pansy said, slumping back onto her bed in relief. Finally, someone who understood!

“And you are?” Ananke asked.

“I am...what?” Pansy asked with a puzzled frown.

“You are _who_ ,” Ananke said patiently. “What is your name, child?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Pansy snapped. “I’m the girl who was destined to be engaged to Draco Malfoy. Pansy Parkinson.”

“Hmmm,” Ananke regarded Pansy thoughtfully. “Well, as you’re not engaged to Draco, are you engaged to anyone else?”

“Of course not!” the witch said in exasperation. “Why would I get engaged to anyone who wasn’t Draco when you know very well that we’re meant to be together?”

“So, more than one destiny clearly thwarted,” Ananke said darkly. “When I get my hands on whoever is responsible for this mess, that person is going to deeply regret ever having dared to subvert my divine and celestial will.” She snapped her fingers, and a length of cloth appeared in the air before her. The cloth was about two feet wide and three feet long, woven of more colors of thread than Pansy could begin to wrap her mind around. Pansy had the unsettling feeling that she was seeing only a tiny portion of the cloth, that it was infinitely wider and longer than it appeared, as if more were hovering just out of her line of sight which made no sense since there was plenty of room above, below, and to either side of what she was able to see. Since she’d never studied Muggle physics, she had no concept of parallel universes or alternate dimensions, but if she did, she’d have said it looked as if the cloth were only partly in this dimension, and that most of it was in an adjacent universe that was touching upon the one in which she lived. As it was, she opened her mouth to ask her visitor about it, but seeing the thunderous look on the crone’s face as she studied the cloth, remembered the whole heart-eating thing and decided not to break the silence.

This was an excellent choice on her part. Ananke’s thunderous looks grew more and more forbidding the longer she stared at the weaving. By the time she was done, and the weaving banished back into the dimension from whence she’d summoned it, her gray locks were crackling with electricity and her eyes were snapping with fire.

“Idiot! He ruined not just his own fate, but those of a dozen others. He dared to think he could escape the cut of my daughter’s shears. He didn’t lengthen his thread, he snapped it sooner than it would have been broken. Well, it has been long since I paid Hades a visit. I shall take great delight in letting that arrogant wizard know the error of his ways.”

“That’s nice,” Pansy ventured, having no clue what the crone was going on about. “So, can you fix it? The fate thing.” The crone threw her an evil glare.

“Of course I can fix it. Have you got a piece of parchment and anything to draw with?”

Pansy rolled her eyes and summoned the sketch pad and specially inked quills she used in her work as a designer, then followed Ananke’s odd directions. It was borne in upon her that if she wished to keep her heart safely beating in her own chest instead of digesting slowly in Ananke’s belly, she was to draw a picture of how she imagined herself and Draco. Not a literal picture, Ananke warned her, a symbolic one. So, not a picture of them standing in front of that darling little cottage in Hogsmeade she had always thought would make a nice starter home for them until they were ready to take over the Manor, and not a picture with the baby in nappies she thought would have arrived inside the first year. Pansy shrugged and went with the fairy-tale theme that she’d always believed in, anyway. Within a few minutes, she had a charming portrait of Prince Draco wearing a golden crown and Princess Pansy standing at his side, dressed in perfectly gorgeous dress robes of white silk, a diamond tiara even prettier than the Goblin-made one she’d long coveted, serving as her own coronet.

“That will do nicely,” Ananake said, waving a hand to set Pansy’s drawing onto the wall over her bed. “Now, all you’ve got to do is go to sleep, and when you wake up in the morning, everyone’s fate will be untwisted and set on the right path.”

“So, Draco won’t be engaged to the wrong girl anymore?” Pansy said.

“Of course not,” Ananke snorted. “He’ll be with the girl he’s been fated for.”

“Fabulous,” Pansy said happily.

“And then, you can call upon me again, to return the ring.”

“Uhh...but if my fate’s no longer thwarted...” Pansy said uneasily, her hand fluttering protectively over where she was pretty sure her heart was located.

“By the nature of what it is, the ring has to remain with you until destiny has been set to rights,” Ananke said in a bored voice. “After which, unless you want me to return and eat your heart for your ingratitude, you must properly thank me for setting your life back on course, and return my ring so I can leave it where the next mortal who needs it can find it.”

“Oh. Well. That’s all right, then,” Pansy said, scrambling under the covers and lying down. “So, um. Good night?”

“Pleasant dreams,” Ananke said, smiled evilly, then vanished.

With a sigh of relief, Pansy closed her eyes and slept.

What seemed mere moments later, she woke in a garden, and not just any garden, she realized excitedly as she rose from the lovely white velvet chaise lounge she’d been sleeping on, but a garden in the inner courtyard of a fairy-tale castle, complete with turrets and towers and fountains and...

....a dragon hanging on the roof looking down at her hungrily before spreading its wings and swooping toward her. With a horrified shriek, Pansy lifted up the skirts of her gorgeous white silk dress robes and headed for a fortuitously open castle door which was, even more fortuitously, just a few feet away.

Even so, it was a near thing, and she only just managed to use her wand to slam the stout iron door behind her and shoot the bolt home before several tons of angry magical flying reptile crashed into it with an angry roar, setting the entire room shaking from the impact. As the room was made of ancient stone, rather like that used in building Hogwarts castle, this was no mean feat. Pansy wondered sourly exactly how being chased by a hungry dragon was meant to be setting her destiny to rights. Fortunately, the door seemed to be holding. She took a look at her surroundings. She appeared to be in a foyer of some sort, with a corridor leading deeper into the castle. With no better plan, she took the corridor which turned out to lead, with no side passages, to a large circular room, through which sunlight poured through beautiful windows of stained glass. At the far side of the room, exactly opposite the entrance where Pansy found herself, was a couch very like the one on which she’d awoken. This one was occupied by a man in royal robes, a golden chain of office on his breast, a golden crown on his fair hair.

“Draco!” Pansy said with a little gasp, lifting the hems of her robes and hurrying forward, unaware that there were four other couches in the room, each of them occupied. “Draco, wake up!” She had the happy thought that perhaps she was supposed to wake him in the time-honored fairy-tale fashion of bestowing upon him True Love’s Kiss, and was on the verge of bending down to do so when a loud crash, and an exclamation of “Bloody, buggering hell,” stopped her. Whirling around, Pansy discovered the other couches, from one of which someone had just risen.

Or, had tried to rise before tumbling onto the stone floor. Getting to his feet was a tall--very tall, impressively so--knight in shining armor. Literally. Pansy could almost see her own reflection in the metal breastplate protecting a broad--again, impressively so--chest. The knight continued to swear, throwing up his visor, then removing his entire helm, which, Pansy could now see as he placed it on the couch, was surmounted by a silver crown. Not just an ordinary knight, then, but a prince. Looking back at him, Pansy found that the light, gently colored by coming through the stained glass windows, shone off of what she was sure had to be very, very ginger hair. It took her a moment, because people can change rather dramatically between their late teens and their early twenties, but she soon had it.

“Ronald Weasley?” she demanded in disbelief, because it was hard to associate the lanky, gangling slacker she remembered from school with the tall and imposing man before her. “What the hell are you doing here?” She was absolutely certain that the former Gryffindor would be dead useless in trying to straighten out her mucked-up destiny. Then again, she thought with a considerable brightening of spirits, between the suit of armor and the rather hefty looking broadsword that seemed to be hanging from his side, he did look to be in prime shape to go off and slay a dragon. Like the large nasty one that still seemed to be trying to get into the castle to eat her. Not _completely_ useless, then.

“Exactly where the hell is _here_?” Weasley, for it was definitely he, growled, frowning at the sword on his hip and adjusting it to hang more comfortably at his side.

“Castle,” Pansy shrugged. “Anyway, there’s a dragon outside I think you’re meant to be slaying,” she told him, making shooing motions with her hands. “I’ve got to wake up Draco.”

“Draco?” Weasley said, coming toward her. “As in, Malfoy? Hang on, Parkinson, is that you?” The look he gave her, a frank appraisal from the top of her diamond tiara to the tips of her silk-slipper shod feet suggested that he hadn’t immediately recognized her. And that the change in her appearance was one he approved. Not that she cared what the pauper thought of her appearance. Although, come to think of it, he wasn’t a pauper any longer, was he? He’d become a surprisingly good Quidditch player, enough so to leave his work as an auror to play professionally. Good enough to lead the Chudley Cannons to their first victory in ten years, and their first go at the finals in nearly a hundred. They were in serious contention for this year’s World Cup for the first time in...even longer. Not that Pansy gave a rat’s knackers about Quidditch. Well, actually she was a huge fan, she just didn’t give a rat’s knackers about it at the moment. For that matter, she didn’t give a rat’s knackers about Weasley or about anything, really, other than getting her life back on track.

“Of course, as in Malfoy, you git,” she said waspishly. “How many other Dracos do you know?”

“One too many,” Weasley said dryly, nodding toward the sleeping Slytherin. “Anyway, why hasn’t he woken up yet, with all the yelling you’ve been doing?”

“Well, I haven’t had a chance to break the spell yet, have I?” Pansy snapped. “I was about to give him True Love’s Kiss when a certain clumsy oaf fell off his couch and distracted me.”

“True Love’s Kiss?” Weasley said, brow raised. “Thought he was engaged to the younger Greengrass girl, what’s her name, Astoria, Asteria, Astaria?”

“Yes, but that was because someone thwarted his proper destiny,” Pansy said haughtily.

“Right,” Weasley said, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t you have a dragon to be slaying?” Pansy asked sweetly.

“No,” Weasley said, leaning against his couch nonchalantly, one leg crossed over the other at the ankles, his arms folded across his chest as he graced Pansy with a smile only slightly less evil than Ananke’s. “I think it’ll be much more entertaining to watch you try to wake up Malfoy.”

“As if I would do something like that with an audience,” Pansy stamped her silk-slippered foot. “Go _away_ , Weasley.”

Whatever Ron would have replied was lost as another roar shook the castle. A moment later, a piece of parchment fluttered from the ceiling, to land right in the hand Ron had instinctively stretched out to catch it.

“What the hell?” he groused. “ _Faint heart never won fair maiden._ What in Merlin’s name is that supposed to mean?” Meanwhile, Pansy had taken a quick look around, and seen the other couches, with their occupants.

“Weasley, aren’t you still seeing Granger?” Pansy said thoughtfully, walking toward a couch upon which lay a sleeping witch dressed in robes of periwinkle blue that were _almost_ as gorgeous as Pansy’s. The robes were trimmed in royal purple, matching the velvet fabric incorporated into the golden crown on the witch’s head. There was also a golden pendant nestled into what Pansy grudgingly had to admit was a very impressive cleavage. She, too, had changed since Hogwarts, but those impossibly wild brown curls were unmistakable.

“If, by _seeing_ you mean _planning to marry next year_ then, yes, I am,” Weasley said coolly. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we were supposed to make the announcement to our family and friends at a party we’re having, tonight.”

“Yes, well, I’d offer my congratulations,” Pansy smirked, “but I think the meaning of that parchment is, if you don’t slay that dragon, you’ll never get the girl.” Dramatically, she stepped aside, drawing Weasley’s attention belatedly to his sleeping girlfriend.

“Bloody hell! Hermione?” he said, straightening away from his couch and striding over to Pansy’s side. “Hermione! Wake up!”

“You might want to try giving her True Love’s Kiss,” Pansy said dryly. “Although I don’t think that’s going to work unless you kill the dragon, first.” Ron favored her with a scathing glare and proceeded to bend over his girlfriend, kissing her soundly. She didn’t stir. “Told you so,” Pansy smirked. At that moment, an oddly feathered little golden bird fluttered into the room, flew around the pair of them, twittering, then flew toward the entrance to the corridor through which Pansy had entered the room, where it hovered in the air, looking back at them and chirping expectantly.

“What in the hell is that? Never mind,” Ron snarled, snatching up his crowned helmet and putting it on once more, flipping up the visor. “Just show me where to find that sodding dragon.” With a pleased smile, Pansy led him out of the room toward the entrance to the castle, the little golden bird fluttering before them.

The younger Greengrass girl, as most people thought of her, was having a particularly unpleasant dream in which she’d been getting married to Draco Malfoy only to find that her wedding robes were two years out of fashion, earning the undying contempt of her formidable future mother-in-law. Her even more formidable future father-in-law had threatened to disown Draco for having a wife with so little fashion sense and Draco had been sadly disappointed by her inability to keep up with the latest trends. She was used to disappointing her mother and her much-idolized older sister for the same reason, so she hadn’t been able to do anything other than hang her head in abject shame and beg Draco to forgive her and go ahead with the wedding. Only he wouldn’t. Which meant that he wouldn’t settle the money on her called for in their marriage contracts which meant that her father wouldn’t be able to pay off his gambling debts and might possibly be so disappointed in her, or so desperate, that he’d end up selling her to the highest bidder in Knockturn Alley. She woke up just as Professor Severus Snape, who was only a little bit green from having been lying in his grave for four years, threw her father a hefty purse.

Her first thought was, she was still dreaming, only this dream seemed much nicer. She was wearing a very pretty set of dress robes in lemon yellow silk, and the odd weight on her head appeared to be that of a crown of some sort. Cautiously sitting up, she looked around at the room in which she found herself, noticing one empty couch, and three others that were occupied. Draco, she saw, was to her left, and a vaguely familiar woman was on the couch opposite his. It was the person on the couch opposite her own that caused her heart to stand still for a moment, then pick up its beat.

Yes, a dream. A very pleasant one. Smiling, she ran lightly across the room.

“Horatio!” she said delightedly, hovering over a brown-haired young man in doublet and hose of a deep blue, a small crown of gold binding his brow, and an odd stringed instrument resting in his right hand. “Horatio, wake up.” The young man, thus appealed to, did indeed wake up.

“Ria?” he said. _Ria_ was the younger Greengrass girl’s preferred nickname, though only a few people knew that, Horatio Honeyduke being one of them. “Nice dream,” he decided, closing his eyes again.

“Yes, I thought so too,” Ria agreed. “Although, it’s an awfully realistic dream,” she continued nervously, as she looked at her surroundings more closely. Just then, an angry roar shook the room. “Oh, Horatio, do wake up! I think something awful has happened.” This time the young man did open his eyes, and sat up, looking around warily.

“More awful than you engaging yourself to Draco Malfoy, you mean?” he said tightly. Ria shivered.

“I thought you understood about that,” she said quietly. “I thought you were my friend.” Horatio sighed, setting aside what he recognized as a troubadour’s harp--Breton, twelfth century, apparently strung with gold and possibly dragon gut--and taking her hands in his own.

“I will always be your friend, Ria,” he replied gravely. “Even when you won’t let me help you.”

“Well, I think we both might need help now. Also, Draco,” she said nodding her head in the direction of the couch on their right. “And the woman over there,” she said, indicating the couch to their left.

“Hermione Granger?” Horatio frowned. “What on earth is she doing here, wherever _here_ is?”

At that moment, a parchment fluttered from the ceiling. Horatio caught it, going pale at the message inscribed upon it. _Words of love must be spoken to be heard._

“What does it say?” Ria said anxiously, reaching for the parchment.

“Nothing to the point,” Horatio reassured her, briskly folding the parchment away and stashing it in his doublet. “Have you tried to wake the others?” This proved an impossible task. No matter how loudly they were shouted at, or how vigorously they were shaken, they did not respond, but slept on, the regular breathing of deep slumber the only sign that they were not in any overt distress. In desperation, Horatio had even grabbed the harp, and played a tune he remembered from some music lessons in his youth, figuring the harp had to have been left with him for _some_ reason. Waking up the pair on their couches was not, apparently, it.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Horatio said finally, giving up and slinging the harp over his shoulder by its carrying strap, “but I think we need to try to find a way out of here.”

“Yes, please,” Ria Greengrass agreed fervently, looking anxiously around the room. “There are three corridors leading from here. Which one should we take?” Just then, a little golden bird with something peculiar about its feathers flew into the room, twittering madly, before hovering in the entrance way of a corridor that happened to be at the opposite end of the room from the one Pansy and Ron had taken, though Ria and Horatio were not to know that.

“Well, as far as omens go, that one looks as good as any others,” the young man decided, offering Ria his hand. She took it and let him lead her away.

Hermione Granger was topping the worst day of her life with the worst nightmare she’d had since the fall of Voldemort. It wasn’t supposed to be the worst day of her life. The day on which she announced her impending marriage to the boy of her dreams was supposed to rank right up there with the best days, eclipsed only by the day of wedding itself. But, deny it as she would, and try as she might to convince herself that things would get better, the truth she could not hide from herself in dreams was that her relationship with Ron had begun deteriorating almost from the moment it had begun.

She’d thought that with the careers they’d both chosen in the Ministry--he with the Aurors and she in Magical Law Enforcement--they would be working together for the betterment of the Wizarding world. But Ron, who’d gamely followed Harry into the Aurors, had even more gamely left them to accept a contract with the Cannons. He was good at Quidditch. Surprisingly good. Good enough as Keeper not to let a single Quaffle get by him, good enough to turn around the team’s fortunes and have himself voted Quidditch Player of the Year. Two years running. She couldn’t begrudge him that. The Quidditch groupies were another matter, although he did seem to avoid anything but the most mild, largely harmless, flirtations.

 _Largely_ harmless.

Still, the groupies weren’t the biggest problem. It was all the away games, and the long periods spent at training camps. And, it was the subtle, but constant pressure from almost everyone they knew that she really ought to be more supportive of his career, really ought to try to get to more of those away games, despite her workload. She was constantly being pressured by their friends and his family to spend her weekends with him at the training camps rather than researching the cases on her docket. The pressure was gentle and supportive and loving, couched in terms that she needed to take more time for herself and not work herself to death. But pressure it was, nonetheless. It wasn’t that anyone thought she should give up her own ambitions, stay home, and start making as many babies as Molly Weasley had pushed out. Certainly not! Hermione was a bright and ambitious witch who deserved a fantastic career of her own. But perhaps she could find one that wasn’t so demanding? After all, Ron’s career was also demanding--grueling, in fact. But also so, so, very lucrative, far more lucrative than the career of a junior researcher in MLE. He really needed a witch who appreciated that fact, a witch who could be there for him.

Hermione wanted to be there for him, she _was_ there for him. Whenever she could spare the time away from her own extremely demanding work, work which had far more important consequences for the Wizarding world than who took home the World Cup.

Sadly, it didn’t seem that Ron was necessarily there for her when she was the one who needed support. Like the time she’d lost the case against someone who’d beaten his house-elf nearly to death, because the elf couldn’t bear to testify against his own master. When she’d poured the tale into Ron’s ear that night, he had given her a sympathetic hug, listened to her for ten minutes before his eyes glazed over, and when she’d let her voice trail off, sensing his inattention, jumped into the conversational gap with descriptions of the new variation on the Sloth Grip Roll he’d developed at that afternoon’s practice. He’d figured out not only how to avoid the Bludger, he told her excitedly, but also how to send it rebounding back on the opposing team’s Beater. His mates on the team had already christened the new move the Weasley Wrap, he’d informed her with pride. It wasn’t enough that Hermione had listened to him go on and on and _on_ about the Quidditch move for an hour. No. She had to praise his skill and innovation for coming up with it, shoring up an ego that simply shouldn’t have been that fragile at this point in his life. He’d been instrumental in helping his best mate win a war against one of the Darkest wizard’s who’d ever lived, had been named Quidditch Player of the Year--twice!--and had managed to engage himself to the witch with the highest academic standing to leave Hogwarts in more than a hundred years. What on earth did he have to feel insecure about?

Part of her felt that she was being unfair to him. She understood the difficulty he’d had, the youngest son, following in the footsteps of such incredibly successful older brothers. Couple that with being the best friend to, and therefore inevitably under the shadow of, the Boy Who Lived. They had all been tough acts to follow. Nevertheless, he _was_ following them, and part of Hermione wished he would just have at it, and let her get on with her own highly important work without needing her to hold his hand every five minutes.

She put her negative feelings down to bridal nerves, and kept telling herself things would settle down once they’d got through the stress of the ceremony and started their new life together, in their new home.

Which Ron was trying to convince her should be in Devon rather than London, so that he could be close to the team. And, all right, with Floo connections it wasn’t that big a deal to get to work from anywhere in Britain, really. She supposed she could be happy in Chudley and if they found the right house, she wouldn’t turn it down. But still. There was a lot more to where one lived than how close it was to work. There were plenty of reasons for a woman trying to make a dent in the laws of the Wizarding world to make her base of operations as physically close to the center of power, in London, as possible.

Ron didn’t seem to understand that, and while she’d got him to agree to continue to look at flats in London with her, just as she was looking at houses in Chudley with him, it was increasingly clear to her that he thought of that as just a formality. She gradually realized that he fully expected her to end up going along with his choice. That she had, in fact, no choice of her own.

Today, officially the worst day of her life, she’d let him talk her into taking the morning off from work--a huge concession given the importance of a case she was bringing before the Wizengamot the following week--to look at a house that had just come on the market. Ron had said there were already several other couples set to look at the place, and if they wanted to have a chance at putting in an offer before it was snapped up, they needed to move quickly. The large old Victorian mansion, built in the Second Empire style, would be perfect for them, according to Ron. The rooms were large, airy, and got plenty of good light. There was more than ample space for a growing family, as well as a lovely garden in the front and a huge back yard holding a charming pond on which a pair of swans had been floating serenely. Hermione had to admit the house was beautiful.

Beautiful, and nowhere near anything but Quidditch, Quidditch and more Quidditch. Quidditch players for neighbors. A Quidditch-themed sports pub nearby. A Quidditch store across the street from that. And Quidditch-mad children zooming around on brooms up and down the block.

She and Ron had gotten into a tiff because he wanted to put in an offer immediately and she wanted to wait until they’d looked at the London townhouse they had an appointment to see the next evening, first. She didn’t think that was unreasonable, because she’d agreed that if the townhouse wasn’t suitable, then, yes, despite its less-than-ideal-for-her location, she was willing to put an offer in on the Chudley house.

“But if we wait until tomorrow, we might lose our chance,” Ron had said in exasperation.

“And if we act before we explore all our options, we might lose out on something even better,” she insisted. The townhouse was being sold at an unbelievably low price by a wizard whose job was being transferred to the continent. He was willing to take a significant loss in order to settle up quickly. Which meant they might get it for half of what the place in Chudley would cost them. To which Ron had bluntly replied that, at this point in his life, he was in a position not to give a damn about the money, thanks ever so, and would she just consider what they might be losing? The tiff had only been resolved when Hermione had very grudgingly agreed to let Ron put in the offer on the Chudley house, so long as he made sure that the seller knew the offer was provisional, to be confirmed or withdrawn the following evening.

She’d Floo’ed back to work only to discover that the case she was working on had been moved up in the Wizengamot’s schedule, and would be heard at the end of this week, instead of the following. Worse. Anderson, her supervisor, had assigned her a partner, allegedly to help her with the accelerated schedule. His name was Wickford, and he was all that was pleasant, eager, and accommodating. Hermione had the sinking feeling that Wickford was in fact being positioned to take over her case, entirely. Possibly even all of her cases. Something about the jovial way Anderson had referred to her house-hunting activities made Hermione think she was fully expected to put her duties as Ron’s wife ahead of her career, even by her own boss. Her firm assurance that she had the upcoming Wizengemot case well in hand and didn’t really need an assistant was received with polite disbelief by her boss, who simply smiled and said Wickford would be happy to help, anyway, which Wickford pleasantly, eagerly, and accommodatingly agreed that he was.

That was probably why she’d had the nightmare, the one in which all her worst fears had been realized. She’d gone before the Wizengamot to try the case she’d prepared, only to find that case had already been won by Wickford and she was really there to defend herself from charges of being a bad wife. The fact that a baby had unexpectedly appeared on her hip and she’d nearly dropped it had not helped, nor had the fact that the baby’s nappies needed changing. She’d had to use the desk where her files had been set up as an impromptu changing table while making her closing argument. The effect of which was to have charges of being a bad mother added to those of being a bad wife. She’d lost her case, been given a five hundred Galleon fine, then sent back to her office for a further reprimand. As Andrews jovially told her that he knew she’d be needing Wickford’s help, a second, equally damp, baby appeared, and had to be balanced on her other hip. At which Andrews jovially relieved her of her job, assuring her that Wickford could handle everything on his own. He sent her home to the house in Chudley which somehow transformed from the Victorian she’d seen that morning into something that looked exactly like the Burrow, down to Molly fussing with dinner in front of the stove, as she’d moved in with them to help with all the Quidditch players constantly showing up to have dinner at Ron’s house as well as with all the babies...babies Hermione seemed to be giving birth to once every other hour....

Hermione woke up gasping, relieved to see that there were not a dozen crying infants whose nappies needed changing, that there were no infants, at all. And then she saw that there were other things, things that didn’t belong. Things like floors made of flagstones, narrow windows of stained glass set in walls of stone, and couches: three that were empty, one upon which she herself was lying, and one with an all too familiar occupant.

“Malfoy?” she said, surprised, getting up and walking briskly to his side. Yes, it was the ferret, the childhood bully she’d last seen in the Great Hall of Hogwarts after the final battle. Oh, and in the society pages of _The Daily Prophet_ that morning, announcing his engagement to Daphne Greengrass’ younger sister, the quiet one Hermione vaguely recalled had been sorted into Hufflepuff. What was her name? Asteria? Astoria? Hermione honestly couldn’t remember, even though the girl had been just two years behind them, and the _Prophet_ had devoted almost a full page to the discussion of her upcoming nuptials only that morning. The truth was, the younger Greengrass girl, as Hermione was used to thinking of her, was something of a nonentity. Hermione was vaguely surprised that Malfoy was settling for such a shy witch. She’d thought he liked brassy pieces. Like Parkinson. Who’d rather cornered the market on _brass_. No matter. There was a mystery to be solved, and Malfoy was the only person around to help her solve it.

She tentatively set a hand on his shoulder, a shoulder that was much broader than she remembered it being four years ago. She couldn’t be sure, as he was lying down, but she suspected he was also much taller than he’d been four years ago, as well. His resemblance to his father was more striking than ever, though he was hardly a carbon copy. There was a hint of Narcissa’s features, particularly around his mouth, and his whole face seemed a bit better defined than it had been in school, particularly his cheekbones which were.... Well. Striking was a good word for them. A word she’d never, in her wildest dreams, thought of applying to Draco Malfoy, before.

Also, totally beside the point, which was to get him up so he could help her figure out where they were, how they’d gotten there, and how to get back to where they ought to be. She shook his shoulder gently. “Malfoy, can you hear me?” she called. In his sleep, his brows drew together, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle, but nothing else happened. Hermione tried again, just as a roar shook the room in which they were standing. “Malfoy, wake up, damn it,” she said, shaking him more vigorously this time, and wondering if she would need to slap him.

Draco Malfoy’s eyes snapped open, alert and intelligent.

“Hermione Granger?” he questioned, quickly sitting up and looking around at their surroundings. “Where in the sodding hell are we?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” she informed him. “I woke up here just a few moments ago myself. I’m not sure, but there might be some other people with us,” she said indicating the empty couches. “And I think that we’re under attack.”

“Attack?” Draco said, brows raised in surprise, as he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood up. “What sort of attack?”

“Something large and growly,” she said. “I didn’t see it, but its roar was loud enough to shake the entire room.”

Draco Malfoy swore fluently. Hermione raised her own eyebrows, impressed despite herself.

“French, German _and_ Gaelic, Malfoy? Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Yes, well, I save the Russian and Chinese curses for truly desperate circumstances,” he said easily, looking around at the room. “I’m not sure the occasion calls for it. Not yet, at least.”

“You speak five foreign languages?” said, not quite sure she’d understood him correctly. Apparently, she had.

“Malfoy International is just that,” he said mildly. “International.” He turned back to her with a small smile. “Mind, I’m not certain I’d have too great a degree of fluency without translation charms,” he went on with a humility that surprised her, being completely at odds with the arrogance she remembered from their school days. “One of the advantages of being a wizard is, of course, the ability to use translation charms, in the first place.” That was better, more the Malfoy she remembered.

“Oh yes, mustn’t forget the perks of being a pureblood,” she said dryly.

“I admit you may have excellent grounds for believing I would think that way,” he said, still mildly. “And, I will apologize for having given you those grounds. But I did say _wizard_ , not _pureblood_ , and _wizard_ was what I meant. The ability to use magic is a definite advantage. No matter one’s blood status.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, both pleasantly surprised at this new and unexpectedly broad-minded Malfoy and somewhat embarrassed by her own jumping to conclusions about him. “Sorry,” she said sincerely. This time, the smile he gave her was somewhat rueful.

“It’s all right. I did say I had given you excellent grounds for believing I would think that way. For that, I’m sorry as well.”

“Oh,” Hermione said again, a bit disconcerted. “Thank you.” Then, deciding they didn’t really have time to waste on the social niceties at the moment, she continued more briskly. “Right, then. Any thoughts about what we should do next?”

It was at this moment that a piece of parchment fluttered down from the ceiling. Draco, whose Seeker’s reflexes had not atrophied, though he rarely had time for a good game with his mates these days, instantly caught it. A frown grew between his brows as he studied it.

“What does it say?” Hermione asked anxiously.

“Nothing immediately useful,” Draco said, offering her the parchment which she readily accepted. “Just, _Paradise is within the grasp of the one who seeks it._ I’ve no idea what that can possibly mean.”

“Well, it must be a clue of some sort,” Hermione said, scrutinizing the parchment in her turn. “I mean, that’s how these sorts of enchantments work, isn’t it? We’re in some sort of magical puzzle, and we’ve got to follow the clues to find our way out?”

“Usually,” Draco nodded. “But I don’t see anything useful in that parchment.”

“Hmmmm,” Hermione’s eyes narrowed at a small symbol almost invisible in the lower left corner of the parchment. “Here,” she said, returning the parchment to Draco and pointing at the spot. “What do you make of that?”

“Symbol of eternity?” Draco said, looking to where she’d pointed. “Nothing good. I do _not_ fancy being trapped in this place for eternity no matter how charming the company with which I’m trapped.”

“Charming?” Hermione said, startled. Malfoy regarded her gravely.

“We’re not schoolchildren any longer, Hermione. Ah. May I call you Hermione?”

“Um. Yes. I suppose. Draco,” she said just a tiny bit flustered by this very cordial, polite Draco Malfoy she was meeting in place of the rude little git of their school days.

“Thank you,” he said. “Well. My point is, the war changed my view on any number of subjects. Ten years ago, I would never have admitted that a woman of Muggle birth could be an attractive and intelligent witch. Faced with an undeniably attractive and intelligent witch of definite Muggle birth, not only can I admit it, I can be charmed by the circumstance.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you,” Hermione said, more flustered than ever.

“Have you looked at the other couches, tried to see if there were any indications of who might have occupied them?” he continued, reclaiming the parchment and tucking it into his royal robes, frowning as he realized that they _were_ royal. “Why in Merlin’s name are we dressed like a king and queen?” he wondered aloud. “Never mind, I know you have no more idea than I. Let’s see what the couches can tell us.

One couch held a strand of red hair which Hermione suspected might belong to Ron. Another held a faint trace of perfume that Draco was positive belonged to his fiancée.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Hermione said. “I saw the announcement in the _Prophet_.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, rather absently, she thought.

“Ron and I will be sending in our own notice next week,” she added by way of making conversation.

“I never doubted that you would be, at some point,” he said easily. “It was rather obvious at school.”

“Not to everyone,” Hermione muttered to herself, remembering just how thick Ron had been, back then.

“Sorry?”

“It’s nothing,” she told him. “Just an old memory.”

“Still, I must wish you happy,” Draco said.

“Thanks.” Which seemed to be all there was to say on the subject.

“Right then,” Draco went on a moment later. “We know that your boyfriend and my fiancée are likely to have been here with us, along with a third person we can’t identify. I suspect it might be Pansy, though.”

“Really? Why?”

“Perfume,” Draco said. “Spend enough time snogging a witch who uses one perfume exclusively, and you can recognize it anywhere, even if you haven’t seen her in years. I caught a hint of jasmine between those two couches. Pansy’s always been partial to it.”

“Ah, yes. In school the two of you were quite the couple,” Hermione observed.

“A lot has changed since school, Hermione,” Draco said quietly.

“Yes, so it has,” she agreed softly, thinking of her own relationship with Ron, and how much more complicated everything had gotten. No time for those thoughts, either. Resolutely, she pushed them aside. “So, what next?” she asked briskly.

For the third time that day, a strangely feathered little golden bird flew into the room, circled about, and hovered at the entrance of a corridor.

“Given the nature of this sort of enchantment, I believe we’re being shown the way out,” Draco said, nodding to a corridor that, though he did not know it, lay exactly midway between the corridors previously taken by Ron and Pansy on one hand, and Ria and Horatio on the other. “Or, at least the way we’re meant to take. Let’s see if we can either find the others who were here, or someplace with some answers. Perhaps the castle has a library.”

“A library would be good,” Hermione admitted, allowing him to offer her his arm and lead her down the hall.

For the next half hour, the three couples tried their best to get on with their tasks. On the south side of the castle, Ron was attempting to get a good look at the dragon. He was also peering intently at the castle garden, although, as Pansy said in exasperation, he could hardly hope to find a dragon hiding amongst the closely cut grass and blooming flowers to be found there.

“No, but dragonshield might be,” Ron said shortly. “My brother works with dragons, Parkinson. I do know one or two useful things about them.”

“Yes, I imagine that’s why you’re here,” Pansy said. “Although I still haven’t grasped the purpose of the dragon.”

“Obstacle for the hero,” Ron shrugged. “That’s how these sorts of enchantments work.”

“But you’re not the hero, Draco is,” Pansy said indignantly.

“Maybe,” Ron said. “But I’m the one with the sword and a knowledge of what to do with dragonshield. Keep your eye out for anything with purple leaves on one side, and yellow leaves on the other, all right?”

On the east side of the castle, Draco and Hermione had found, not a library, but a study containing a half dozen volumes of obscure magical texts. None of which had anything to do with the sorts of enchantments they were most interested in trying to break. Which was not to say that the books weren’t of great interest.

“Good lord, I think this is a completely intact version of Otto Rathmuller’s _Treatise on Mammalian Transfiguration,_ ” Hermione said in awe as she carefully turned the fragile parchment pages of a very old book.

“Rathmuller’s _Treatise_?” Draco said interestedly, looking over her shoulder. “The whole thing? I thought we had the only complete copy.”

“You’ve got a complete _Treatise_?” Hermione said, trying to keep the note of envy from her voice.

“Oh, yes. Been in the family since it was originally published in the twelfth century. Fascinating reading. Wrong, for the most part. But still fascinating.”

“You’ve _read_ Rathmuller’s _Treatise_?” Hermione said faintly.

“The Malfoy’s have one of the most extensive libraries outside of Hogwarts,” Draco reminded her. “Father claims it’s the most extensive private library in the Wizarding world. It’s not just for show, I assure you.” An unexpected pang went through Hermione at those words. She had a respectable collection of books, and was well on her way to starting her own, very modest library. A library to which Ron’s only contributions were apt to be the latest issues of _Quidditch Capers Quarterly_. Ron had many good qualities, but a love of reading was not one of them.

Apparently, it was one of Draco’s. Fostered, undoubtedly, by lifelong proximity to all those lovely, lovely books. The Greengrass girl was one lucky witch, Hermione thought a little wistfully.

“Anyway,” Draco went on, bringing her out of her musing, “I’ll be happy to lend it to you if you’d like.”

“You’re joking,” Hermione said. He raised a brow. “Mal--uh, Draco, that book is not only worth more than I earn in a year, it’s worth more than I am likely to earn in _ten_ years. I’d be terrified that something would happen to it while it was in my possession, and I’d never be able to repay you, or make up the loss.”

“Oh, no fear there,” he said easily. “We’ve got all sorts of protective spells and preservation charms on it, not to mention a few nasty anti-theft jinxes. You can’t damage it and no one will be able to steal it from you. Beside which, I’m sure if anyone knows how to take proper care of an ancient text, it’s you, so there can be no objection.”

“Right,” Hermione said shaking her head. “Well, if your father agrees, I’d be over the moon to be allowed to borrow it. Once we’ve managed to get out of this mess,” she added, closing the volume she had in her hands and replacing it on the desk. “It doesn’t look like there’s anything useful in the books that are here. Shall we try to find another way out?”

A little while later, on the north side of the castle, Horatio Honeyduke had finally had enough.

“If I’m not happy for you, it’s because I can’t see how this marriage can possibly make _you_ happy,” he told Ria, who was trying very hard not to cry. “I know your father won’t approve me because even the Honeyduke chocolate fortune is no match for the billion Galleon Malfoy empire, and my father would never agree to settle enough money on you to pay his gambling debts. But they are _his_ debts, not yours, and there’s no reason why you should sacrifice yourself for his bad judgment.”

“You don’t understand,” Ria said, wringing her hands. “The kobolds have their hooks in him. They don’t like it when someone refuses to pay a debt.”

“The kobolds?” Horatio said in horror. “Your father went to the kobolds for a loan? Is he suicidal?”

“Possibly,” a voice drawled from their left. Horatio turned to see Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger standing in the doorway. “Only a madman or someone with a death wish would take money from the kobolds with no way of repaying it.” He dropped Hermione’s hand and approached his fiancée. “My dear, I am so sorry. I hadn’t realized that your father was compelling you. I thought you were coming into this match for the same reasons I was, dynastic duty and the need to make a suitable alliance.”

“Well, of course I was,” Ria said nervously. “I mean, of course I _am_. Oh, Draco, surely this changes nothing! You know I’ll make you the best possible wife.”

“I know you would do all in your power to try,” he said raising her hands to his lips and kissing them gently. “But I don’t believe your heart would be in it,” he said favoring Horatio with a sardonic look.

“But Draco,” Ria began, growing pale. Draco turned his attention back to her, giving her a reassuring smile

“As I am the one breaking the marriage contract, I will of course honor the settlements and turn over the sum agreed upon to your father,” he said.

Ria gasped, then flung her arms around him.

“Oh, Draco you are the best of men!” she sobbed. He patted her back reassuringly and gently disengaged himself from her embrace.

“You are kind to say so. Speaking of which, Honeyduke, I gather you might have something of importance to say to the lady? But first, do either of you have any idea where we are or what is going on?”

“Well, there seems to be a dragon attacking the castle we’re in, though it’s only doing a half-arsed job of it,” Horatio tore his eyes away from Ria long enough to offer. “But that’s as much as we’ve been able to discover. The whole place just seems to be a series of empty rooms, except for the one where we woke up.”

“Yes, well, Hermione and I are going to continue to try to find a way out, or more clues. Let’s meet up in an hour, in the room with the couches, and compare notes, all right?”

“Er, yes, of course,” Horatio said, his gaze drifting back to Ria’s as she looked up at him limpidly.

“Excellent,” Draco chuckled, taking Hermione’s hand to lead her away from the younger couple, who were completely oblivious to their departure. Behind them, they heard Horatio declare undying love to Ria, who rapturously declared her reciprocation of said undying love, followed by the unmistakable sound of a couple kissing. Hermione cast a sympathetic look at Draco, who had to have taken a bit of an emotional hit at this development, despite the chuckle, but he seemed perfectly calm. She was about to comment on this when there came another unmistakable sound behind them, the crack associated with Apparition as air rushed in to fill the void formerly occupied by a witch or wizard. Hermione looked back, gasping as she realized that Ria and Horatio were gone, a piece of parchment fluttering to the ground in the spot where they’d been standing.

“Draco, wait,” she said, turning back to the room and grabbing up the parchment. “ _Words of love must be spoken to be heard_ ,” she read aloud. “Oh! That must have been Horatio’s clue,” she said excitedly.

“Yes,” Draco nodded. “The poor sod had been in love with Ria but never told her, and let her engage herself to me without complaint. Once he spoke his words of love, she heard them, and reciprocated them, allowing them to exchange a kiss of true love, thereby breaking the enchantment they were under. Hopefully, they’ve been returned to their respective homes. Or,” he said with a grin. “one of their respective homes, which might be even better. Well, I hope this has been a lesson to Honeyduke. What a young idiot he was to let the woman he loves get away from him.”

“As much of an idiot as someone who gets engaged, at twenty-one, for dynastic reasons, to a woman who only wants his money for her reprobate of a father?” Hermione asked pointedly.

“My father suspected it was something of the sort,” Draco shrugged. “If the marriage had gone through, we wouldn’t have allowed him to continue to bleed us.”

“You knew Ria didn’t love you, but you were going to marry her, anyway?” Hermione said slowly.

“Love is not a requirement for a dynastic marriage,” Draco said. “My ex-fiancée is a lovely girl, and I’m sure we’d have gone on famously together. I expected we would grow closer over time, as usually happens in these sorts of things, and eventually grown to love each other. But not if her heart belongs to someone else. That would have poisoned any chance of happiness we might have had.”

“Well, I must say, your view on marriage is very--”

“Pragmatic?” Draco supplied. “Or were you going to use the less flattering equivalent, and call it cold-blooded?”

“I was going to say, _sad_ ,” Hermione said quietly. “You’re not yet twenty-two. Surely it’s too early to give up on the idea of love, to settle for mere dynastic necessity.”

“Is it?” Draco said. “My father seems to feel differently. I believe his experiences in Azkaban made him much more conscious of his own mortality than he’d been before. He’s quite set on me continuing the Malfoy line, and there are so few witches he’d like to see me continue it with.”

“Ah, the cause of pure-blood supremacy is still alive and well, I see,” Hermione said, making to withdraw her hand from Draco’s arm.

“Again, you keep hearing _pure-blood_ even though I’m not saying it,” Draco said, pulling her hand back and replacing it on his arm. “I’ve gone out with three half-blood witches since leaving Hogwarts. And one Muggle-born. All with my father’s approval.”

“Lucius Malfoy approves his only son and heir keeping company with witches who don’t have pure bloodlines?” Hermione said in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“You don’t follow the gossip columns in _Witch Weekly_ do you?” Draco said. “Because Raquel Fuentes and I made quite the splash when we were a couple. Brazilian beauty queen, you see, and her previous boyfriend had been a star of the South American Quidditch League.”

“Oh, yes, I can imagine your father being perfectly happy to see a Muggle-born beauty queen become the future matriarch of the Malfoy line.”

“A Muggle-born beauty queen who had already won her Potions Mistress certification by the time she was sixteen, yes,” Draco said. “And who had developed a contraceptive potion that only needs to be taken once a year, instead of once a month, by the time she was twenty.”

“Wait. Raquel Fuentes is R. M. Fuentes?” Hermion gasped. “And you were dating her?”

“Yes, and also, yes,” Draco said. “Further, I assure you that my father was entirely delighted. He was impressed both with her knowledge of potions and her grasp of their commercial applications. That she was also a beauty queen was a happy coincidence. Or, it made me fairly happy, for the two months we were dating.”

“Only two months?” Hermione asked.

“Sadly, yes. She liked England well enough, but she was happier in Brazil. She moved home, and though I missed her, I didn’t miss her enough to move halfway across the world to be with her.”

“Oh. Well. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. My heart was not involved.”

“Is it ever?” she wondered aloud, then blushed. “I’m sorry. I had no right to ask that.”

“No, you hadn’t, but I won’t take offense,” Draco said. “I realize it must seem strange. You’re marrying for love and I’m marrying, or was marrying, for duty. I recognize that’s a very old-fashioned concept, and it must seem strange to you.”

“That’s not the part that’s strange to me,” Hermione told him. “It’s that you’re not trying to combine the two. However few witches you consider suitable, why did you settle for one you knew you didn’t love, rather than continuing to try to find one that you did, or could?”

“I already know I won’t be falling in love with any of them,” Draco said.

“Ah,” Hermione nodded wisely. “I see. You don’t really believe in love, do you? Because how else could you be sure you won’t fall in love?”

“Simple. I’m already in love,” came the surprising answer. “Completely. Desperately. Irrevocably. And sadly, unrequitedly.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, in a small voice. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized.”

“It’s hardly something I advertise,” Draco said with a chuckle. “A long time ago I fell madly in love with someone who was quite firmly, obviously, and distressingly permanently, in love with someone else. I told myself I’d find someone to replace her, but I never met anyone who came anywhere close.”

“So you were about to settle for something less than love,” Hermione said. “But that makes no sense. You just broke your engagement because your fiancée’s heart belonged to someone else, and you said that would have poisoned any chance at happiness the two of you might have had together. But you already knew your own heart belongs to someone else, as well. So, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is that hers belonged to someone who returns her affection. Mine belongs to someone who never can and never will. I will not deprive her of a chance at happiness just because I don’t have a chance of my own.”

Hermione wondered if he were talking about Pansy Parkinson. She didn’t know why they’d broken up. Perhaps Pansy had fallen in love with someone else, leaving Draco to pine for her? He’d never shown interest in any other witch that she had heard of through the usually reliable Hogwarts grapevine. Or, perhaps it had been another witch he’d met since leaving school? None of her affair, she reminded herself. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a tug of sympathy for Draco Malfoy. He had so much to offer a witch, beside Galleons, far more to offer than she, herself, had ever been aware of, until now. It was a pity that he was willing to settle for so little when he was capable of so much. She decided she owed it to him to have one more go at getting him to see reason.

“I think you owe it to yourself to at least try to see if you can find someone else to fall in love with,” she told him. He surprised her by laughing.

“I’ve more than tried. After Hogwarts, there were any number of witches setting their caps for me. I decided to let a few of them catch me. It was...singularly unsuccessful and ultimately rather depressing. Though some were brilliant and others were beautiful and a few managed to be a little bit of both, none of them ever managed to capture my attention the way the girl I’d already fallen for had done. And you needn’t worry that I broke any hearts. The witches I went out with were far more attracted to my vaults at Gringotts than my own dashing good looks and boyish charm.”

Hermione barely repressed a snort of laughter.

“Goodness, you have changed since Hogwarts, haven’t you?” she said.

“I hope, for the better,” he said. “Have you noticed, by the way, that the corridor we’ve come along, the same one we took to get here when we left the room we woke up in, has grown quite a bit longer and seems now to be going in a different direction?”

“What? Oh,” Hermione said, looking distractedly at the stained glass windows above her head. “Well. Given the angle the light’s coming in, and how long we’ve been here...Yes. I believe you’re right.”

The little golden bird made another appearance, this time leading them toward a new corridor that turned off from the one they’d been taking, just a few feet ahead.

“That wasn’t there before,” Hermione noted.

“Likely, the corridors are simply coming into existence as needed, to get us wherever the enchantment wants us to be,” Draco agreed.

“Lovely,” Hermione said. “Where to, this time?”

Just then, two voices raised in argument could be heard, a little way ahead. Very recognizable voices. Hermione and Draco exchanged a look.

“This should be interesting,” Draco said. As one, they picked up their pace and hurried ahead.

They were back where they started.

So were Ron and Pansy. Who were arguing heatedly over Ron’s insistence that they needed to find a patch of dragonshield. Pansy was equally insistent that there was no point.

“...had a cauldron, and a fire, or anything to use to make a fire, that might be lovely,” Pansy was saying. “But you cannot boil dragonshield in a conjured cauldron over a magical fire. Any first year at Hogwarts knows that. It will just explode.”

“Yes, but if you grind up the leaves into a paste--” Ron began.

“So, it is a dragon,” Hermione said, dropping Draco’s hand and hurrying toward her boyfriend.

“Hermione! Thank Merlin!” Ron said, pulling her into an embrace and holding her close. “When we came back here, and you were gone, after we hadn’t been able to wake you earlier, I didn’t know what to think.”

“Hang on, Weasley,” Draco said with a frown. “You weren’t able to wake Hermione?”

“He didn’t want to kiss her in front of me,” Pansy shrugged. “So, no True Love’s Kiss, and therefore no way to break the enchantment.” She frowned at an obviously wide-awake Hermione Granger. “How did you, then? Break the enchantment?”

“I didn’t,” Draco said shortly, giving Hermione a thoughtful look. Hermione returned it, paling.

“That can’t be right,” she said. “Let’s think. Ria, Pansy and I are all dressed like princesses.” Draco arched his brow at Hermione’s crown, which he thought more befitting a queen, but did not challenge her assertion. “You, Draco and you, Ron are both dressed like princes, as was Horatio Honeyduke. But we’re not all dressed identically. Horatio had a troubadour’s harp, and as we all know, troubadours were important figures in the ideals of Courtly Love championed by Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

“Oh, we all know that, do we?” Ron muttered.

“Eleanor of what?” Pansy said.

“Aquitaine,” Draco said thoughtfully. “That would make sense. The object of the troubadour’s affections was supposed to be an unattainable lady, of higher rank. Usually the wife of the nobleman employing the troubadour.”

“Let me guess,” Hermione said. “Malfoy International has a controlling interest in Honeyduke’s Chocolates.”

“Of course we do,” Draco said.

“What are you two on about?” Pansy asked in exasperation.

“There are six of us,” Draco went on. “Or, to be more exact, there are three pairs. The damsel in distress with the knight in shining armor, the king with the queen, and finally, the troubadour with his unattainable lady. Horatio Honeyduke was in love with my erstwhile fiancée, but he hadn’t declared his feelings, so she allowed herself to be engaged to me, in exchange for my clearing up her father’s gambling debts. The enchantment brought him here, he got up the nerve to make his feelings known, the two exchanged a kiss of true love, and that seems to have returned them to wherever they were before they woke up here.”

“How can you be sure that’s what happened?” Ron asked.

“We were there,” Hermione said. “And they left this behind,” she added, handing over Horatio’s parchment.

“Wait, so, Horatio is marrying the Greengrass chit?” Pansy said, excitedly, turning to Draco. “You’re engagement is broken? Oh, Draco, darling, that’s _wonderful_.” She flung herself into his arms, standing on tiptoe, trying to capture his mouth in a kiss. But, the prat was taller than she remembered, and although he hugged her, he managed to keep his lips from getting anywhere near hers.

“Yes, well, good to see you, too, Pans and thank you for your condolences on the breaking of my betrothal,” he said wryly.

“Draco, this is no time for shyness,” Pansy said crossly, giving up on her attempts to kiss him. “I don’t care if we have an audience. Just kiss me so we can get out of here. Now that destiny has been set right, and you’re no longer with the wrong girl, we should be fine.”

“Wait, destiny set right?” Hermione interrupted as certain fragments of ancient myths, and with them, some very frightening thoughts, crept into her head. One look at Pansy’s hands confirmed her fears. “Pansy, where did you get that ring?” she asked.

“What ring?” Draco asked interestedly. Then he saw it, and the same clues that had clicked for Hermione clicked for him. He began to curse fluently in both Russian and Chinese. Then he turned to Hermione, his face grim.

“Ananke,” he said simply. She shuddered and nodded.

“What the hell is a nanke?” Ron asked, looking from one to the other of them.

“Ananke, Goddess of Destiny,” Draco answered shortly. “Not the Fates, but the mother of the Fates, a goddess Zeus himself feared and obeyed, though he was supposedly the king of the gods. Pansy, you had to have used that ring to summon her, or you wouldn’t be wearing it. Do you know how dangerous that was? If you’d angered her, or if you’d been wrong about destiny having been thwarted, you’d be lying in your room with your heart torn out. How could you have taken such a risk?”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Pansy said somewhat defensively. “I called upon her to set destiny to rights, and your engagement was broken so we should all be able to go home, now. You just need to kiss me and those two can have a snog, and it will be all over.”

“Oh, Pansy,” Draco said, shaking his head with quiet grief. He exchanged a glance with Hermione who answered his unspoken question with a slight shake of her head. He understood the message, and kept silent about the other piece of the legend that seemingly Hermione knew as well as he did.

If they failed to find their way out of the enchantment before the sun set, Ananke would return. To eat their hearts. Judging by the angle of the sun, he figured they had an hour. Tops. Which meant they had better be getting on with untangling their destinies. Fortunately, Hermione seemed to have realized that, as well.

“Ron, you were never going to agree to live in London, were you?” she was saying. “It’s all right,” she said, holding up a hand to stop him before he issued a denial she knew would be false. “You needn’t lie. In fact, you _mustn_ ’t lie. Our lives could depend on it.” She met his gaze steadily, daring him to deny what she’d already realized had to be the truth. He slumped and shook his head.

“Sorry. No. Even if that townhouse you want to look at in London is as fantastic as you think it’s going to be, I need to be where the team is, and that’s Chudley. I made the offer on the house, but it wasn’t provisional. I thought I could convince you to take a smaller flat for yourself during the week, and you could Floo home on the weekends.”

“Home being in Chudley,” Hermione nodded. “I see.”

“I don’t. What’s wrong with Chudley?” Pansy said irritably. “It’s become incredibly fashionable, the past few years. You should see some of the estates that have been built there, recently. Very popular with younger wizarding couples just starting out. And, some of the older homes, the Victorians, are bloody fantastic.”

“I tried to tell her that,” Ron said.

“Yes, well, I’m sure the two of you will get it sorted,” Pansy said. “Now, will you kiss me, Draco?”

“To prove a point, yes,” Draco said amiably, and pulled her into his arms, while Ron rolled his eyes, and shook his head. As Hermione watched with, she told herself, clinical detachment, though it felt disturbingly like dismay, she had to admit Draco was giving it his best effort. There was no holding back. He was kissing the witch in his arms forcefully, thoroughly, and with great expertise.

And no effect.

A moment later, Draco broke the kiss. Pansy stumbled, backing away from him.

“That was wrong,” she said shakily.

“I know,” Draco said gently.

“That was _all_ wrong,” she said. “Why was it all wrong?”

“Because while you were my first love, and you will always hold a special place in my heart because of it, you were not my last love,” Draco said with that same gentleness. “I’m sorry, Pans.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Pansy said shakily, sitting down on the nearest couch. “What have I done?”

“Got us all in the soup,” Ron said in exasperation. “Let me see if I have this right. Parkinson called on this Goddess, Anna-something, because someone’s destiny had been thwarted. She thought it was hers, thought Draco was meant to marry her, but it turned out to be the other girl’s--Astiria? Asturia?”

“Ria,” Hermione supplied absently.

“Ria was meant to marry that Honeyduke bloke. So, why are the rest of us here?”

“Because our destinies were also thwarted, Ron,” Hermione said tiredly. “If Ria was destined for another wizard, then Draco’s destiny was also being thwarted, because he wasn’t meant to be with her. And, Pansy thought her destiny was thwarted because she was meant to marry Draco, but it was really being thwarted because she _thought_ she belonged with Draco, and wasn’t letting herself be open to whatever relationship she _is_ meant to have.”

“No, I’m fairly certain my destiny is to die a lonely and bitter spinster,” Pansy sighed.

“Tosh,” Hermione said bracingly. “You’re an attractive young witch and a rising star in the fashion world. Every time I pass the displays at Gladrags, I find myself drooling over your latest creation. There are always rumors in the gossip pages--which are, for some reason, the only reading material available in the waiting rooms outside the Wizengamot chambers, these days--that one of the robe-makers on the continent is trying to lure you away from Gladrags, and that you’ve broken the hearts of two young ministry officials and a musician by refusing to go out with them. Why on earth would you end up lonely and bitter?”

“I...well. Right then,” Pansy said uncertainly. “Um. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Hermione smiled.

“Right. That’s sorted,” Ron said testily, “so why are they still here and more importantly, why the hell were you and I here in the first place, Hermione?”

Hermione looked at the boy she’d loved for so many years, was so used to thinking of herself as being in love with, that she hadn’t realized she’d stopped loving him, even though she now realized she must’ve done some time ago.

“You know why we’re here, Ron,” she said gently. “It’s because I’m not destined to live in Chudley, and you’re not destined to live in London.” The words hurt her, physically hurt her, to say. She could literally feel a sharp pain in the center of her chest, where her heart should be, as she forced them out.

She could also feel a wave of relief as a weight she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying was suddenly lifted, a weight of grief and guilt as she tried to make her friendship with Ron into something it wasn’t meat to be.

Ron stared at her for a moment, then collapsed onto his couch, head in his hands. A few minutes later he looked up at the others.

“Right, then, we’re all four of us sorted, so why the hell are we all four of us still here?”

“Ron, did you happen to get a parchment?” Hermione asked. “Horatio did, and Draco did.”

“Yeah, I got one. _Faint heart never won fair maiden._ That help?”

“It should, but I can’t see how,” Hermione admitted. “Unless killing the dragon is going to do something that will help you go after the girl of your dreams. All I know is you and Draco have got to fulfill your quests, and then the four of us will probably be able to leave.”

“Brilliant,” Ron said bitterly. “I’m not the one who summoned that sodding goddess, but I’m the one who’s supposed to be getting that ruddy dragon to stop attacking the castle.”

“He hasn’t been attacking lately,” Pansy pointed out, feeling just a tad guilty. Just then, another roar was heard. “Or, maybe he was just having elevenses.”

Ron looked up to see another golden bird flutter into the room. At the same time, a door opened to the west side of the castle.

“Come on, Parkinson,” he sighed. “If I’m the knight, you’re the damsel, and I think that’s our ticket.”

“I suppose,” Pansy said glumly, trudging beside him as they followed their avian guide out the new door to a side of the castle they hadn’t seen, yet.

It seemed that luck was finally with them. Ron gave a shout of triumph as he found an entire bed of dragonshield.

“We still don’t have a cauldron to boil it in,” Pansy pointed out.

“Don’t need to boil it,” Ron said as he loosed his sword from the sheath and drew it forth. “I don’t want to kill the damned thing, just need to put it to sleep.” With that, he placed a handful of the flowers onto a rock and began steadily crushing them with the pommel of his sword. “Thing about dragonshield is, it’s like catnip, to cats. Once it’s crushed up properly, the dragon’ll smell it, and come down for its little treat--”

“The dragon’s going to come here?” Pansy shrieked.

“Yes, well, in another couple of minutes,” Ron said irritably. “It doesn’t work that quickly. So, the dragon will smell the herb, come down and eat it, and then it’ll fall asleep, tame as a kitten. And, when it wakes up, if I’ve got more dragonshield crushed up in my hand, it’ll eat it as daintily as a debutant sipping tea. After which it will obey me. Usually.”

“That’s...surprisingly impressive,” Pansy decided. Just then a shadow fell over her and she looked up at the sky.

“It does too work that quickly, Weasley. _Run!_ ” Taking her own advice, Pansy hiked up her skirts and took off back to the castle, Ron hard on her heels.

Meanwhile, in the room with the couches, as soon as she’d watched Ron and Pansy leave them to go on their quest, Hermione had turned to Draco Malfoy.

“You do realize what this means, don’t you?” she said. “That we’re meant to help each other solve our respective enchantments?”

“I had tumbled to that, yes,” Draco said, an odd smile quirking his lips.

“Well, I think you’ve already helped me understand my quest,” she went on. “And now I think I know how to help you understand yours.”

“Really?” Draco asked, the smile growing broader.

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “You see, spending the past however many hours with you has made me realize something about myself, about my relationship with Ron, about what I want from a relationship. And I’ve realized that while going through a war with someone can build bonds between you, and sharing danger can bring you close together, those aren’t necessarily the right bonds, and it’s not always enough closeness to build a life upon. I need more from my partner than Ron could give me.”

“More...?” Draco prompted.

“Participation. Partnership. Interest. I need someone who shares more of my tastes, and who doesn’t have to put my career ahead of his own, but who at least respects my career and will help me to accomplish my goals. Someone who finds obscure ancient texts fascinating instead of boring, for example, someone who can grow and change. Someone like you, to be frank,” she said, blushing furiously but pushing on regardless because she was a Gryffindor, damn it, and she would say what had to be said no matter how embarrassing it was. “Yes, I know you are in love with someone else and no, I’m not trying to _set my cap_ for you like those other witches you mentioned. Just the opposite. _Paradise is within your grasp._ Don’t you understand? That witch you’re in love with? I think your quest is to realize you should go after her. I don’t know why you think she’s in love with someone else, but it looks like she’s your destiny, and you should at least make a push to be with her.”

“Let me get this straight. You believe paradise is within my grasp and that I should go after the woman I love?” Draco asked, lifting a brow.

“I think paradise has always been within your grasp,” Hermione said. “But you didn’t go after it when you should have, and since then you’ve been letting your father dictate what you should do. Wizards enjoy a relatively long lifespan. There’s really no reason for you to rush off and start a family, no matter how mortal your father feels. We’re all mortal. But we’re not all going to die tomorrow. If I’m wrong about that witch you love--not that I think I am, but just for the sake of argument. Anyway, if I’m wrong, then give yourself time to enjoy your life, figure out what you want from it. But don’t settle down until you find a girl who makes you feel the way the girl you fell in love with makes you feel. Don’t _settle_ , Draco. Go for what will really make you happy. Pursue what you want. Anything worth having is worth fighting for. Because you really have changed since school. You’ve become everything any witch in her right mind would be _crazy_ not to fall wildly in love with. Kind. Smart. Sensitive. Caring.”

“The Galleons don’t hurt, either,” he chuckled.

“Oh, bother the Galleons,” Hermione said crossly. “Even without them, you’re a catch. I’m horribly jealous of the witch you’re in love with, you know, and I haven’t even met her.”

“No need,” Draco said, a smile on his lips as he came closer. That was all the warning Hermione got before Draco pulled her into his arms and kissed her, much as he had Pansy, just a few minutes before.

But not exactly like. Because there was one thing this kiss had which his kiss with Pansy had not. Desire.

Draco’s kiss of Hermione was not an attempt to prove a point, it was, quite simply, a passionate avowal, an ardent declaration. He wanted her. Hermione could feel it in the way his arms held her, in the way his lips caressed her own. Shockingly, the prince of all that was pure of blood wanted, needed and desired a Muggle-born witch.

Fortunately for them both, Hermoine thought blissfully as she lifted her arms to encircle his neck, she wanted him right back.

Several minutes later, when they finally broke for air, a frantic twittering was going on just above their heads.

“Oh, not you again,” Draco groaned at the little golden bird. “I’m not bloody moving, thank you very much. I’m fine, right here.”

“I don’t think you have to move,” Hermione said slowly, now the little bird had come closer, and she got a good look at its plumage, and now understood what was odd about it. “That’s a bird of paradise. And it is decidedly within your grasp.”

Draco looked down at her in surprise, then up at the bird, laughing and stretching up his hand.

Sure enough, paradise was within his grasp. A moment later, he and Hermione were standing in the living room of what he took to be her flat in London.

He was right. It was _much_ better when the enchantment returned two people to the same place.

Back at the castle, Pansy Parkinson watched Ron Weasley scratching the ears of a drowsy dragon, more impressed than she would have believed possible.

“Will he let me do that?” she asked tentatively. Ron smiled up at her, and held out his hand, in which there were additional crushed sprigs of dragonshield.

“Rob them on his snout,” he said quietly. Pansy nodded, took the sprigs and followed instructions. A moment later, she gasped, then burst into giggles as just the tip of the dragon’s large tongue flicked over her hand delicately, lapping up the dragonshield.

“Oh, my, that tickles,” she said.

“Yeah, it does,” Ron agreed. The two sat in companionable silence for a few moments, before Ron spoke again. “I figured it out. My quest, I mean. Really didn’t have anything to do with the dragon. My brother’s been working with them since before I started Hogwarts, and I’ve been around him, and them, enough to know not to fear them. Or, well, not more than anyone should fear any wild beast.”

“If not the dragon, what was it?” Pansy asked, curious.

“I didn’t have the courage to come right out and tell Hermione what I wanted,” he acknowledged. “And, I don’t just mean about Chudley and London. I mean about all of it. I should never have let her think that I was going to stay with the Aurors for more than a few years, and I should never have let her think I was going to be happy with a wife who was away from home working late hours and even weekends. If I’d told her I thought a career in Magical Law Enforcement would take her away from me too often, and asked her to consider the other offers she had--working as an Unspeakable, or translating ancient runes, to name just two--maybe we could have figured out a way to both get what we wanted from our marriage.”

“So, I gather that the next time you have a girl, you’ll be more honest with her?” Pansy said.

“Yep,” Ronald said, scratching the dragon affectionately behind the ears.

“Good to know,” Pansy said, just before she found herself back in her own flat, standing beside her own bed. Sighing she turned to look at the drawing Ananke had placed above it. Not surprisingly, there were three of them now. One showed the younger Greengrass girl along with a young man who had to be Horatio Honeyduke. A second showed a smiling Draco and Hermione, dressed as Pansy had last seen them, one of those dratted gold birds cradled tenderly in Hermione’s hands. There was a third picture. Or, there was a third piece of parchment on the wall. But though colors swirled through it, no picture had formed, yet. Which made sense. Pansy hadn’t found her prince charming yet. With a sigh, she retrieved the little silver box, before going to stand in the middle of her room.

“I call upon Ananke to thank her for undoing the evil of a thwarted destiny,” she said glumly.

“You’re welcome,” the ancient crone said, appearing before her.

“Although you might have warned me it wasn’t mine,” she said, taking off the ring and putting it back in the box to hand over to Ananke. Honestly, if she never saw that ring again, it would be too soon. Then again, she thought more cheerfully, it was quite probably that she never _would_ see it again.

“Wasn’t it?” Ananke said mildly. “How odd. At any rate, you’ll want to thank your grandmother, too. Remember that dahlias are her favorite flower.”

“Yeah. Dahlias. Got it.” Pansy said, unenthusiastically. “Thanks again, but don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’ve got destinies to untangle and lives to ruin. Best have at it, yeah? Cheers. Bye. Ciao. See ya.”  With another evil smile, Ananke faded from sight, the silver box vanishing with her.

Sighing, Pansy returned to bed.

The society pages of the _Prophet_ were almost as depressing on Saturday morning as they’d been on Friday morning. There was a retraction of one engagement announcement, and the announcement of two others. Along with a gossipy little interview of the jilted Ron Weasley, who had, rather affably according to the reporter, wished his former girlfriend all the best, and made a joke about having his hands full with all the lovely young Quidditch fans showering him with attentions. Yes, he’d just bought a huge house in Chudley, but he wasn’t really ready to settle down with just one witch, he’d said with a debonair smile. Pansy snorted. However honest he planned on being with his next girlfriend, Weasley wasn’t sharing all the details of his personal life with his public. Which was, Pansy thought, just as well.

Millicent firecalled later in the day, relieved that Pansy seemed to be much better, and to have accepted the loss of Draco Malfoy--again--far more philosophically than her friend would have expected, just the day before.

“Some things aren’t meant to be, Millie,” Pansy said.

“And you’re okay with that?” Millicent asked.

“I’m fine,” Pansy assured her. Which was true, as far as it went, but not the complete truth. Some hours later, tired of feeling sorry for herself, Pansy took a shower, pulled on a pair of stylish evening robes that were a prototype for her spring line-up, and went off to the Leaky Cauldron for a night cap.

She had just settled down with a glass of Ogden’s Old when a voice spoke up right at her shoulder.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you shouldn’t drink alone, Parkinson?”

Pansy turned to watch Ron Weasley slide into the bar seat beside her.

“Lucky I have you to keep me company, then,” she said easily. He smiled and called Tom over to bring him a glass of stout. “So tell me, Weasley. That line about wishing Hermione happy and being chased by Quidditch groupies was all bollocks, wasn’t it?”

“Not entirely,” Ron defended himself. “Some of those groupies are right fit birds.”

“Oh, yeah?” Pansy said with a smirk.

“Some of them,” Ron mumbled. “The ones that aren’t terrifyingly obsessed and so grabby they’d put a Knockturn Alley whore to the blush.” Pansy laughed so hard at this she almost fell out of her chair, but as it was, merely slumped against Ron chortling manically.

“Merlin’s nuts, Weasley. Don’t tell me you’re actually witty!”

“Of course I’m witty. I am a witty, astoundingly handsome, talented, Quaffle keeping machine with hordes of groupies eager to do my every bidding.”

“Yes, I bet the grabby ones are especially eager,” she giggled, straightening back up. “Another round over here, Tom,” she called.

“What about you, Parkinson? What’s a pretty girl like you doing drinking alone in a place like this?” Pansy eyed him in amazement.

“Pretty?”

“Well, yeah. Let’s face it, you were a right disaster in school, but you’ve lost the baby fat, and your face doesn’t have that ridiculous plump-cheeked pug look anymore. Heart-shaped, in fact, and now people can see that you’ve got a pair of lovely, wide eyes, without the pudgy cheeks getting in the way.”

“My cheeks were not pudgy!”

Ron snorted. “I was there, Parkinson. Got the school yearbooks to prove it. You definitely had pudgy cheeks. I like the ones you have now much better.”

“Oh,” she said, thoughtfully. “Well. Thanks. Cheers.”

Misery does love company, so Ron and Pansy were happily miserable together for the rest of the night. At some point, Pansy apologized for wanting to turn him and his best friends over to Voldemort and explained she’d just been scared. Ron shrugged and said she’d have been a fool not to be scared, because Voldemort was bloody terrifying and she’d just been a kid and they’d managed to survive the war, so best leave the past in the past, yeah?

“After all, it was obvious yesterday you didn’t feel the same way as you used to. You didn’t sneer at Hermione or make a single crack about her blood status.”

“No, I didn’t, did I?” Pansy realized. She decided that deserved another toast. Over the course of the next few hours, they found a number of other things to toast, including their apparently unlimited ability to find things to toast. Eventually they were so pissed, Tom refused to serve them, at which point Ron remembered he had a case of stout at home as well as an unopened bottle of Ogden’s Old he’d been saving for a special occasion, and reckoned that this occasion was special enough. He wrapped his arms around Pansy, the two of them staggered over to the Floo where Ron managed to enunciate his address clearly enough to get them back to his new house without any mishaps. Alas, the stout was destined to remain undrunk and the Ogden’s unopened, as they were so pissed by then, that they fell asleep on his couch within three minutes of arriving there.

Their second date went significantly better.

At the small but tasteful Greengrass-Honeyduke wedding, and six months later, at the far larger, highly sophisticated social event of the year that comprised the Granger-Malfoy nuptials, each happy couple received their portrait from the enchanted day in the castle.

“It was kind of her to give it to us,” Hermione said, smiling at the image of the royal couple in the painting, herself and Draco, the bird of paradise safe in her hands. The painting had just been set in a place of honor over the Floo of their London townhouse, which had been every bit the bargain Hermione had expected it to be. “Another witch might have burned it.”

“No, Pansy’s learned her lesson, I think,” Draco said. “Or, several of them.”

As, indeed, she had. Because the third portrait wasn’t very long in coming clear, after all. And forgoing a huge headache of a wedding in favor of being married over the anvil in Gretna Green turned out to be quite a bit of fun, with the right groom. Pansy’s groom lived in a house that she’d fallen in love with at first sight. Better, his idea of the perfect honeymoon involved two weeks of spoiling her rotten every day with shopping trips to Venice, Rome, Paris or New York and shagging her rotten in their luxury suite every night. Better yet, he made sure she had not only a goblin-made diamond tiara, but the goblin-made diamond necklace, earrings and bracelets to go with them. As well as a dozen dresses to wear them with. So, _definitely_ the right groom.

Every year on her wedding anniversary, Pansy Weasley remembers to send her great-great-grandmother a huge bouquet of dahlias.


End file.
